The shadows of the past
by DarkGriffyn
Summary: The abuse and violence that marked Mitsui's childhood never really stopped, and now, he must make a stand for himself as the world of his basketball friends and his secret, dark world at home begin to intertwine.


The deserted corridor was illuminated solely by a solitary bare bulb hanging from a rusted chain above. Far from brightening up the place, the faint yellow light only served to further accentuate that dust-laden floorboards, dilapidated heaps of discarded furniture, and walls so ancient that not only had the paint peeled off- the cement within had long been eroded by degradation and disregard. 

Mitsui's weary heart felt just as abandoned as the forlorn apartment. Since the day eight years ago when their creditors came to confiscate their luxurious mansion, he and his father had taken up residence in the poorhouse with barely any facilities at their disposal. His father was too deeply immersed in his drinking binges to look at anything that wasn't a liters' worth of alcohol, but Mitsui had never known a day of peace since they'd been condemned to a life here. Far from being a vibrant, lively organ the way it had been when the skies were filled with rainbows and his mother was alive, his heart now felt like a bruised and battered piece of rotten fruit, emanating a dull ache that radiated outward from his breastbone. It would be ridiculously simple to walk away and never return- quite honestly, he had no idea why he kept returning to this living hell of termite-infested wood and no electricity. He could only put it down to inborn obligation and whatever scraps of filial piety he still possessed. He would look after the emotionless shell of his father to repay the man for all the times he had taken care of him, in the long-forgotten past that was scant comfort to him now.

Blinking tears away from his normally haughty eyes, Mitsui turned the keys in the rusty lock and shoved the creaking blue door open. Immediately, the acrid stench of stale beer and unwashed hair assailed his senses, making him gag, and he recalled the reason why the first thing he'd bought after receiving his first paycheck was air freshener. His father had probably incarcerated himself in his room, his bottles and cigarettes the only company he required. 

Throwing his bag into his room, Mitsui flung himself across the worn straw mat that he found to be a poor excuse for a bed. Since Okaa-san's demise, his father had evolved into this beer-guzzling human chimney. His thoughts as bitter as leftover beer that flies buzzed desolately over, Mitsui let down the arrogant façade that he displayed before his friends and freed the onslaught of raw pain boiling beneath the finely-polished exterior. "Okaa-san…'' he murmured, reaching into a crack in the wall behind the scratched yellow table, retrieving an old, tattered photograph. In one impetuous attempt to banish the past, his father had burned all his mother's pictures but the young Mitsui had salvaged this one and hidden it since. 

His mother was in her wedding dress, her sleek, bluish-black hair flung over one shoulder in a cascading waterfall, a massive bouquet of red roses in her silk gloved hands. Mitsui could almost hear the laugh he craved so much to hear- akin to a rippling brook, yet warm enough to envelope him in the very heart of a mother's love. "I miss you…'' he traced his fingers over the glossy paper, concentrating so hard that he looked up only when he saw a shadow fall across the doorway.

He was a moment too late. 

A humongous brown fist, made more brutal under the influence of drink, smashed right into Mitsui's finely-chiseled face, sending him reeling. Too shocked to cry out, he staggered to his feet and dived for the last memoir he had of his mother but it was decimated with one stomp from his father's military boot. "You little bastard,'' the older man seethed; he was swaying on the spot in his drunken stupor, but even in his inebriated state, his feral, predatory gaze marked Mitsui as a dead man. 

"Go to hell!'' he dived at his son but Mitsui evaded him and made a beak for it. "I need to get out,'' he thought, beginning to panic, but his knee gave out as he was halfway to the door and he went sprawling. The next thing he felt was the unwelcoming embrace of the crumbling wall behind him as his father kicked him across the room like a limp rag, sending a burst of pain along Mitsui's spine. Unable to retaliate on account of his weakened leg, Mitsui could only curl into a ball, shielding his head from the numerous, seemingly never-ceasing blows that rained down upon him in this deluge of violence. He was accustomed to the pain by now, and he willed his mind to go blank as he tolerated without a whimper the beatings that alternated with the lashings of the leather belt. 

At long last, nothing made contact with him and their apartment had gone silent- was it over yet? Letting his guard down, Mitsui opened his eyes and to investigate.

"AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGHHHH!'' As soon as he lifted his head, a pot of boiling oil was flung right into his face and he screamed. The pain was unbearable- every degree of excruciating- it felt as if something red-hot was stuck to his cheek, and no matter how he clawed at his burning skin, the fire could not be extinguished. 

Tears streaming freely down his face, slightly alleviating the fiery agony, Mitsui made a grab for his school bag which contained all the objects he ever valued for survival, and rushed headlong from the apartment.

His head was pounding in rhythm to his overcharged heart; adrenaline, fear and pain swirling within him in a tormented whirlpool of emotion. Gasping air into his straining lungs, he emerged into the cool night air, navigating the streets of Kanagawa till he came to a screeching halt at the beige front door of Kiminobu Kogure's two-storey house and banged madly on the front door. 

Kogure answered and let out a yelp- which Mitsui found perfectly understandable. He must've looked a real fright. "Kogure…'' was all he managed to choke out before he fainted dead away.

TBC


End file.
